


Five Times Dean Was Saved.  And One Time He Wasn't.

by felisblanco



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2006-12-12
Updated: 2006-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 23:19:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felisblanco/pseuds/felisblanco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the hero is the one who needs saving. NOT a death fic, despite the title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. February 1983 – The Malice of Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> Remix of this can be found here: [From The Other Side](http://archiveofourown.org/works/459616)

Dean’s bouncing, happily following mommy through the baby shop. She’s looking for a perfect light for the baby’s room. The baby that’s by now really stretching her belly; heels and fists bulging it from the inside. It’s a real kicker, daddy says.

“Just like you were, Dean-o. Feel that! Here.” And they both laugh as the baby kicks so hard Dean’s hand jumps on mommy’s belly.

Only about two months left, mommy says. Two months until Dean’s little brother or sister will be out of there and he’ll finally have someone to play with. He hopes it’s a brother. Girls can be so stupid.

Dean doesn’t really care about the light - even if he thinks it should be a Spiderman lamp and not a moon like mommy’s looking for - because he’s looking for a gift of his own. He wanted to give the baby a bike or a football but mom says a soft toy will be better because the baby will be so small when it arrives. He hopes it won’t be small for too long. There’s a tree house in the woods behind the yard he really wants to show it. But he can wait a few weeks.

Dean’s eyes shift, scanning the shelves. He hasn’t got much time because daddy’s picking them up in fifteen minutes, mom said, and even if Dean’s not exactly sure how long that is he knows it’s pretty soon because mommy said they wouldn’t have time to stop for an ice cream.

And then suddenly there it is, the perfect gift. A soft and cuddly little kitten, sitting on a shelf just two feet away. He lets go of mommy’s cart, runs over and stretches up to reach it. It has long limbs and a bushy tail and its eyes are the color of the sky. Dean nuzzles into its soft plush and smiles. The baby will love it.

“Mommy, look! Can I…?” He turns around, the kitten’s long legs swinging in the air.

She’s not there. He stands still for a moment, blinking. She’d been right there a minute ago. His heart starts hammering in his chest and he feels tears stinging his eyes.

“Mommy?”

There are people everywhere, blocking his vision, but then he sees her black coat a few aisles ahead. Clutching the kitten in his hand he runs after her, slinking between tall legs and strange bodies until he finally manages to grab her hand.

“Mommy, look!”

He beams up at his mother, showing her the kitten, but it’s not her. It’s a woman with dark hair and an old face, frowning at him, and he drops the toy in shock.

“Are you lost?” she starts but he’s already running away, his throat closing up as his eyes frantically scan the crowd. She’s not here. She’s not here!!

“Mommy? Mommy!”

“Lost your mother, son?”

Dean stumbles to a halt and looks up. There’s a man in a dirty overall looking down at him, his face sympathetic and kind.

“Yeah. I… I can’t find her!” Dean tries to hold it in but he starts crying and the man scoops him up in his arms, clutching him tight. Too tight. But he smells like daddy, like grease and car oil and Dean breathes out in relief. Everything’s gonna be ok.

“I’ll help you find her. Don’t cry.”

Dean clings to the man, arms around his neck as they walk through the store. They go past the cash registers and out into the parking lot and suddenly he feels scared.

“No, we can’t leave. Please, mister, she’s still inside.”

“If your mommy really loved you she wouldn’t have let you get lost, would she?”

The arms wrapped around his chest squeeze him tighter and he squirms, trying to get loose. The man is breathing funny, his step hurrying across the parking lot. When Dean starts crying a clammy palm closes over his mouth.

“Shut up. Be good now, or I’ll get really, really mad. You don’t want me to get mad, do you?”

But Dean’s not listening. The man is badbadbad. He’s taking Dean away from his mommy! Dean kicks his short legs wildly and beats the man’s shoulders with his fists, finally managing to get his teeth into the palm covering his mouth and he bites down as hard as he can.

“Ow! You little fucker!”

“Let me go! Nooo!! Lemmegolemmegolemmego!!! Let! Me! Go!”

Suddenly he’s snatched away from the man’s arms and thrown to the side where he lands on the ground so hard his butt hurts. He looks up in shock, just in time to see his daddy punch the man hard in the face. The man falls down, his head hitting the ground with a hard crack.

“You sick bastard!”

Daddy’s boot hits the man’s belly and he doubles over, air rushing out of him with a whoosh. There’s blood running down from the man’s mouth and nose and Dean closes his eyes, puts his fingers in his ears and cries as quietly as he can. He can still hear the thuds and cracks but he stays still until they stop and then he’s being lifted up and clutched to daddy’s hard chest. He wraps his arms around his daddy’s neck and hides his face against his throat. Daddy’s heart is beating frantically under his ear, his broad chest heaving for breath.

“Oh God, Dean. DeanDeanDean. You all right? Did he hurt you? Did he…?”

“I lost mommy! I couldn’t find mommy!”

“Sshh… It’s all right. We’ll find her.” Daddy’s voice trembles, his big hands running over Dean’s hair again and again. “I’m sure she’s worried about you.”

Dean nods but doesn’t lift his head, just keeps his face buried in daddy’s warm neck.

He’s asleep before they even enter the store.  



	2. February 1983 – The Malice of Strangers

All heat’s long gone from the car, the small space having quickly been invaded by the cold air of the late November night. Dean sits still, watching the wispy grey clouds of his breath disintegrate into the dark. The naked bulb above the door to the motel room casts a yellow light over the parking lot, reaching halfway across the hood of the Impala. Not far enough to penetrate the windshield and Dean feels securely hidden from his father’s eyes if the man decides to peek out. Every now and then John’s shadow moves behind the curtains. Dean should go in, see if there’s any news on that werewolf. He should clean his guns. He should get some sleep.

He doesn’t move.

He honestly has no idea what’s lead to this. He can’t remember feeling depressed, not really. He’s not the kind of guy that lets feelings get the better of him. Sure he feels emotions, strong ones, not all of them good. Sadness, yes. Who doesn’t? Anger? Often. Despair? Occasionally, but less frequently now than a couple of years ago. But most of the time he considers himself a well-balanced person. Resigned to his place in life, his fate. Sammy used to call him repressed, bottled up, but then again his brother always was overly emo, even as a kid.

Dean blinks, pushing away the image of Sam’s disapproving eyes to concentrate once again on where he is and what he’s doing. And why. Especially why.

It would be nice to blame the alcohol but the truth is he hasn’t had any more than usual. Just a couple of beers and some shots. Nothing that can explain or excuse this.

This.

The heavy weight draws his attention once again and he looks down at the .45 resting peacefully against his thigh, his fingers curled loosely around the butt. It feels so familiar in his hand but at the same time totally foreign. Tightening his grip he lifts the gun slowly. It seems heavier than it should be and he stares at it like he’s never seen it before. He can’t remember taking it out of the glove department. There has to have been a sound or a shadow, something that made him reach for it, but whatever it was it’s gone now. He should put it back. Put it back and get out and go inside. He should…

He turns the gun slightly, then reaches up with his left hand to stroke it gently. The barrel feels cold and smooth like raw silk under his fingertips. He runs his fingers a few times along the barrel then pulls his hand away, rubbing the calloused fingertips together in thought. After a moments hesitation he brings the gun slowly up to his face, inhaling the soothing scent of metal and gun oil. A scent as familiar to him as the smell of the Impala’s leather seats against his cheek or Sam’s hair tickling his chin. Sammy’s too long, ever-tangled, silky hair, falling across his forehead, hiding the frustration in his eyes. Even now, after three years of absence the smell of Sam overpowers everything else in his memory, lingering in his nostrils as stubborn as the boy who put it there.

Pushing the thought of Sam away yet again Dean tips the gun so it rests against the bridge of his nose, then runs it down until it slips of the tip, across his nostrils and down to his lips. He presses it closer, not really kissing the metal, just testing the feel of it. Cold. Slightly acid. He parts his lips slowly and lets the barrel slip inside his mouth, sliding along the tongue. The acid taste gets stronger, burning the slick surface of his tongue, and he withdraws it, resting the barrel on the lower row of his front teeth instead. The tip of the barrel tickles the upper roof of his mouth but he doesn’t gag, just lets it stay there for a moment before moving it to the side until it lies against the inside of his cheek.

Slowly the cool metal warms in the cavity of his mouth until after a while it might as well not be there, just a natural part of him like his tongue and teeth. If it wasn’t for the weight and the still acid taste he might forget it doesn’t belong there.

His fingers tighten on the grip, the index finger slipping in beside the trigger, pressing it lightly. He stills and opens his eyes, staring out into the dark.

He has no idea how long he sits there. His soul is perfectly at peace for once. His mind completely empty except for a fleeting thought of, “Would dad call Sam if I… Would they start talking again?” that then drifts away and leaves everything quiet.

A small shadow suddenly jumps out of the dark and onto the hood of the Impala, just out of the light’s reach. Yellow eyes stare at him and he stares back until they blink and the creature steps into the beam of light, moving closer until it sits down just on the other side of the windshield. They keep up the staring for a while and then the cat lowers its head, lifts a paw and starts licking. It wets the soft fur, making it slick and silky, before lifting the paw and sweeping it over its right ear and down its nose. Again and again before licking the paw wet again and repeating the process.

Dean sits frozen, watching mesmerized as the cat washes every part of its body, from the tip of its nose to the hard-to-reach spot by its tail. It takes its time, carefully ridding the fur of every real and imagined speck of dirt, eyes closed in concentration. At long last the cat sits back and looks at him. He looks back, unable to blink. Then the cat yawns and stands up, tail trembling slightly at the tip as it straightens it, then tip-toes across the hood of the car and jumps off, instantly swallowed by the dark.

Dean blinks. Then he lowers his arm, the gun slipping out of his mouth, leaving a wet trail down his chin. He lays the heavy weight down on his thigh and licks his lips. They are dry, a crack forming down the middle of his lower lip. It stings. Slowly he reaches over to the glove apartment, pops it open and puts the gun back inside before closing it with a snap. Then he opens the door and gets out, locking the car carefully before walking slowly across the parking lot and to their motel room. He reaches out for the knob, takes a deep breath, and then opens the door.

John looks up from the small table where he’s nursing a triple whiskey in a smudged glass, the journal open in front of him. “About time. We’ve got to be up early tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dean pulls off his jacket, surprised to find the material sticking to his back. His t-shirt is soaked with sweat and when he looks down he realises his hands are shaking. Huh.

“You all right there, son?”

He’s so lost in thought it takes him a moment to register his father’s voice. He glances over but John is once again lost in his notes, frowning in concentration.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Just tired.”

There’s no answer. He stands still, watching his father’s bowed head for a moment, and then nods to himself before walking into the bathroom, closing the door softly behind him.


	3. December 2005 – He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Idiot Brother

It’s pain and it’s dark and it’s every nightmare he can think of crashing down on him the instant he wakes up. He tries to move and he can’t. He opens his mouth to yell out Sam’s name and there’s no sound. He can smell sulfur and dirt and taste blood in his mouth but that doesn’t tell him anything. It’s the way most days smell and taste anyway. He knows he still has his hearing because he can hear his own heart pounding in his chest and his ragged breathing getting quicker and shallower.

Sam! Where is Sam? Sammy!

Time passes. He knows it only by counting his heartbeats, trying to calm down his breathing. Trying to _think_. Where is he? What happened? Why the fuck can’t he fucking move!?! God, where is Sam? If something has happened to Sammy he’ll never forgive himself. He doesn’t know what brought this on but it doesn’t matter. It will be his fault. It’s always his fault.

Something warm and soft suddenly brushes against his arm and he’d yell if he could. Was that a rat? He hates rats. Please God, don’t let it be a rat. Where is Sam?

Where the fuck is Sam!?!

There’s a groan and then the brush changes into pressure as fingers tighten around his arm. “Dean?”

Oh thank God. He can’t answer but he feels tears running down his cheeks and he doesn’t care, doesn’t fucking care because Sam is here and he’s alive and the sound of his voice is the sweetest sound in the whole world.

“Fuck, I must have passed out. Dean, you awake? Dean?”

_Yes. I’m awake, I’m here and something’s wrong. Something is seriously fucked up and I can’t do anything. We have to get out of here. You… You have to get out of here. Sam, please. Go. Leave._

The fingers move up his arm and across over his face, slipping on the tear tracks and hovering over his eyes. He fights the instinct to close them, blinking rapidly instead to let Sam know that he’s conscious. His breath hitches, sharp intakes of air that make him dizzy.

“Dean, hey. Hey! Calm down. Don’t try to move, ok? You’re hurt. You got some drugs in you and… It’s ok. Everything’s gonna be ok. We just need to find a way out of here.”

There’s a rustle and then the side of his body goes cold and he realizes that Sam must have been pressed up against him. He didn’t even feel it. What the hell is wrong with him? Drugs? What kind of drugs? Sam? _Sam, talk to me!_

“Ok, I think…” Sam’s voice comes from somewhere behind him. “Yes! Finally. It’s a door. I’m gonna try and get it open. Just stay with me, Dean. Don’t space out again. You scared the shit out of me.”

Space out? What does that mean, ‘space out’? He just woke up. Didn’t he?

There’s the sound of metal scratching against metal and he doesn’t need any light to know Sam’s hunched by the door, picking the lock with his master thief kit. Good, they really need to get out of here. He strains his ears, listening for any sounds that indicate they’re not alone. He’s trying to remember where they are, what the hell they were doing, but it’s all a big blank. His whole body aches, burning as if acid’s bubbling its way through his skin. One side of his head has a cold patch, pounding in rhythm with his heart. Experience tells him it’s a wound, bleeding sluggishly, the cold in this place, wherever they are, probably the only thing keeping it from gushing. Suddenly there’s a low click and a sliver of light crosses the darkness.

“Dammit! I got the lock open but there’s a chain. I need to break it open, Dean. Ok? It’s gonna be loud and if they’re out there they’re gonna hear it. So we need to be quick. You understand?”

Of course he fucking understands! He also understands that he’s fucking paralyzed and he can’t move his fucking pinky, let alone run out of here.

_What’s the plan, wiz kid? How the hell are you planning on playing this?_

“So I’m gonna break down the door and then I’ll carry you out of here. Ok?”

_Carry me? What are you, the Hulk? I’m too heavy. You can’t… Just get out of here. Fucking save yourself. Remember when I said you were a selfish bastard? Yeah well, be that now. Shoo. Go. Get out of here._

“Stop bitching and just go with me here, ok? I know what you’re thinking, Dean, and it’s not gonna happen. I’m not leaving you here.” Sam snorts and the sound echoes in the silent room. “Beside if we get out of here you’ll owe me like forever. I can’t believe you got us into this shit, Dean.”

_What shit? What did I do?_

“OK, here we go.”

He hears Sam take a deep breath and then there’s a loud crash and suddenly the room is flooded with light so bright he slams his eyes shut. By the time he manages to open them again he’s already flung across Sam’s shoulder, head and limbs dangling awkwardly. He feels like a rag doll, if a rag doll was made up of nothing but pain and humiliation.

God. If they get out of here alive he’s never gonna hear the end of this. His eyes are slowly adjusting to the light and when the ride gets even bumpier he sees steps multiplying behind them as Sam runs up the stairs.

Wow. Ok, his brother is freakishly strong. And from this angle he’s got a really nice ass. Which is such a disturbing thought he’s very happy he has these drugs, whatever they are, to blame for it.

They must have been in a basement because suddenly they’re squeezing through a narrow doorframe, Dean’s head whipping to the side and slamming into the wood.

“Sorry! You alright?”

_Just peachy, dude. Having the fucking time of my life._

This experience could only be more perfect if he was naked. He’s not, right? Right? Oh God, please don’t let him be naked! He tries to turn his head to see his arm but he’s still totally paralyzed and all he can see is his right hand and onwards up to his elbow. No sleeve. Nothing.

Ok, no need to panic. He’s probably only wearing a t-shirt, that’s why. Yeah. Because seriously, why would he be naked? In a basement. With his brother. Who is thankfully wearing clothes. What the fuck were they doing down there anyway?

“Shit! I think they’re coming. Where’s the car? Where did they put the fucking car?”

Hey, no cursing his girl! And what does Sam mean ‘Where did _they_ put it?’ Sam let some strangers drive his car? They better not have put a scratch on his baby!

“Oh thank God.”

They’re running through some woods now, yellow and red leaves twirling in their path. Then Sam comes to a halt and Dean’s being swung down and around so fast his head is spinning. He blinks to find himself staring up at the roof of the Impala, the leather backseat comfortably familiar underneath him. Sam is slamming the door and fumbling with the keys, spitting out curses Dean would have sworn his little brother didn’t know. College, huh?

“Come on, come on. Yes!”

The car starts with a roar and Dean mentally pets her. He can hear voices yelling, closing in on them and he has a brief moment of panic, imagining them pulling up guns and shooting at them. If they put a single hole in her he’s gonna kill them! Ok, he’s probably gonna kill them anyway, whoever they are, for doing this to him, but if they damage his car… well, it won’t be pretty.

But they’re moving and there are no gunshots, just Sammy laughing with glee and Dean can see out of the corner of his eye that Sam’s waving his hand out the window, no doubt showing them the finger.

“You alright back there, man? I figure we’re about thirty minutes away from the motel. Need to patch up your head and then I think we better get the hell out of here.”

What? Is he kidding? Flee like dogs with their tails between their legs? No way! He just needs to get this damn poison out of his veins and then he’s ready to kick some serious demon ass. Or whatever they were. What the hell happened anyway?

“I swear, Dean, the next time a blonde bimbo promises you a threesome with her Swedish twin, don’t just follow her like a drooling dog in heat. Think. And check your glass for roofies. If I hadn’t followed you you’d be the star of some gory snuff movie right now.”

Huh?

“Yeah, ok, so I hadn’t counted on being caught but it was a bit hard to stay quiet when they were just about to shove a ten inch dildo up your ass.”

What!?!

“I’ll call the cops from the motel. Enough evidence there to put those sickos away for a long time. Oh and sorry about your clothes, man. You cold? I’ll get the blanket out of the trunk as soon as I’m sure they’re not following us.”

Oh God. He really is naked! And apparently he’d been kidnapped by some sex-crazed porno freaks! And they wanted to…

Ten fucking inches!?!

He tries desperately to turn his head, to catch Sam’s eyes in the mirror. No luck. _What did they do to me?_ His breath quickens again, nausea traveling up his throat. An image of a row of gangbangers, lining up to rape him, flashes before his eyes and it seems so real that for a moment he’s sure he’s remembering. No. No way. Nonono…

“Hey, it’s okay. Relax. They didn’t do anything. Except pump you full of drugs. Some Viagra/roofie/whatever cocktail. Not sure what it is that’s keeping you schtum but I’d love to get my hands on that. You haven’t been this quiet since… forever. Blessed silence.”

Sam laughs but it’s shaky and Dean can hear the anger and relief in his voice.

“It should wear off soon enough and then you can thank me for saving your pretty ass, bro.”

 _Thank you for saving my pretty ass, bro. Thank you for being freakishly strong and carrying me out of there like a fricking girl. Thank you for never mentioning this again_ ever _, ok? Do we have a deal? Sammy? Sam?_

“By the way, I’m going to mock you forever for this, just so you know.”

Damn.

“Yeah.” Sam laughs again, a bit more lightly this time. “Gotta say though, Dean, you did make a pretty hot porn star. If ever we find ourselves short of money we know what to do.”

_Haha. Funny. You just wait until…_

Wait a minute. Did Sam just say…? Huh.

“Especially considering… you know. Seriously, man, that Viagra not wearing off yet? Because that looks positively painful.”

_Oh God! Please kill me now._  



	4. May 2006 – Saved By a Yell

It’s funny but for all their travels they very seldom stay in the same place more than once. Guess evil has enough sense to stay the hell away from places John Winchester and his boys have left their imprint on. But every rule has its exceptions and Dean has to admit it’s nice for a change to recognize streets and corner shops, even the occasional faces, like the old lady at the diner. It had only been about ten years… No, closer to eleven, he realizes.

God, has it really been that long? He chuckles quietly to himself. Sixteen years old, high school freshman, hating everything about it except the cheerleaders and for once not having his little brother on his heels the whole fricking time, seeing as he was still stuck in elementary school. Hunting with his dad as a sulky twelve year old Sammy stayed in the car, the car that only a year later became Dean’s own. His whole life revolved around the hunt, his dad and getting laid.

And of course looking after Sammy, which was becoming more of a chore than the earlier, “You and me, Sam?” “Yeah! Me and you, Dean!” with Sammy’s big smile and adoring gaze at his big brother. At twelve years old Sammy was on the break of adolescence, baby fat slipping away as his arms and legs sprouted like weed. A sulky kid with a squeaky voice who glared at the girls Dean made out with behind the gym and huffed indignantly at his big brother’s lack of ambition when it came to school and homework.

“Don’t you wanna go to college, Dean? You need to learn this if you wanna go to college.”

College. Pfft. Dean rolls his eyes remembering Sam’s outrage at his answer. As if that had ever been an option. Not that it matters. Look how great that whole college thing turned out for his brother.

Dean glances over his shoulder at Sam who’s fallen a few steps behind, broodingly studying the names and dates on the headstones they’re passing. He always gets quiet in cemeteries, and while Dean understands why and sympathizes, it makes him want to get out of there even faster than usual. He sighs and faces forward again, picking up his pace, only to pause when Sam calls out his name. He turns around to find Sam staring at a marble headstone, adorned with a white dove peeking out from a hole in the stone.

“What?”

“Victoria Sweeney. Wasn’t she in your class?”

Dean frowns and walks over. Victoria? Vicky maybe? The name does sound familiar.

Sam is resting his hands on the shovel, pointing his chin at the engraving. “Says here she died in January 1996. Only a few months after we left.”

The picture embedded in the stone reveals a dark-haired girl with pouty lips and doe eyes. Huh. Vicky, yes, definitely. He remembers narrow hips and bouncy breasts that made young Dean’s dick embarrassingly hard every time she walked by. She had a reputation for being easy and…

Dean blinks, then scowls up at Sam. “That’s the girl you cockblocked me from! Remember? She was like the high school slut queen. Every guy in school who was half-decent looking had had her. And it was finally my turn and you, dude, totally blocked me!”

Sam frowns. “What? I never cockblocked you! Is that even a word? And why on earth would you want to go out with a girl like that?”

Oh, sweet innocence. “Not go out with her, you dickhead. She wasn’t exactly the candles and red roses type. I was sixteen and your whiny ass kept me from having sex with probably the most experienced cocksucker in the county.” He pokes Sam in the chest making him stumble back a step.

“Nice, Dean. That’s real classy.” Sam brings up a hand to rub his chest and Dean too late remembers the big bruise he got there two days ago. Damn. “And how did I block you?”

Dean frowns in thought. “If I remember correctly she was unzipping my pants when you came running around the corner telling me dad was looking for me.” He nods. “Yeah, that was it. I told you to get lost and you started hollering like a hellhound, ‘He’s here, dad!! I found Dean! Over here!’ God, you were such an asshole.”

He can’t help grinning at the memory. “She just rolled her eyes and walked away, leaving me with the biggest hard-on in my sixteen years and no way to get rid off it before meeting dad. That was a fun car drive. And the next week we moved. I never got another chance.”

“That was her?” Sam looks back at the picture. “Man, she wasn’t even pretty.”

“She had nice tits and an ass to die for.” Dean looks back at the headstone. “Guess she did. Wonder what happened to her.”

“We could find out?” Sam suggests.

Dean stands silent for a moment, pursing his lips. It’s probably nothing. A car accident maybe. Won’t hurt to check it out though. Just for curiosity’s sake. He nods and they walk slowly to the car, Dean lost in thought. She hadn’t been that bad. Her smile was nice. And she’d never looked down on him for his Goodwill clothes or the choppy home-done haircut. He seems to remember she lived in a nice house on the other side of town. Her dad was the local pharmacist.

They drive back in silence and then he lets Sammy off at their motel room to pack their gear while he goes downtown to search county and hospital records.

Two hours later he’s back, lips set thin, hands trembling slightly as he drops photocopies on the bed. Sammy raises his eyebrows at him in question and then picks up the files, reading quickly through them. He pauses and then his eyes widen. He looks up at Dean, his face paling.

“She died of AIDS?”

“Yes.” Dean swallows. “I remember she’d been ill but…” He takes a deep breath and clears his throat. “Three guys from that class have died the last ten years. Four more have got HIV, two full-blown AIDS. Guess she really did sleep with everyone.”

“Wow.” Sam stares at him. “You could have-“

“I know.”

“But you always use protection, right? Right?” Sam’s looking at him like he’s waiting for his brother to start popping liver spots any second.

“That day? I don’t think I had any and neither did she. I didn’t care. I was horny and just wanted to get laid. I was sixteen years old, dude.”

“So if I hadn’t…”

Dean swallows again. “Yeah. Guess I owe you one.”

“Dean… Man, are you alright?” Sam stands up, reaching out then letting his hand fall awkwardly by his side when Dean turns away, rubbing his palm over his face.

“I don’t know. No. Dammit, Sam. That could have been me. I could have… Fuck!” His knees suddenly feel weak and he sits down on the bed, hands falling limp between his thighs.

Sam takes a step closer, hovering over him. “At least you use protection now. You do, right? And you’ve been tested, right?”

“Sam, will you just…” Dean closes his eyes. “Can you please shut up?”

Sam stares at him in shock. “You don’t use protection?! What the fuck’s the matter with you? Are you insane?!”

He grabs Dean’s arm and shakes him hard then quickly lets him go as if he can’t bear to touch him, stumbling back and then turning away. His shoulders are tense, hands clenched into fists.

“How many women have you been with? Or men? Goddamn it, Dean! How can you not use protection?”

“I do! With… with men, always.” Dean feels his cheeks burning. How does Sam even know about those? “And women… most times.”

“Most times? Most times!?! What the fuck does most times mean?”

“Well, you know. If they’re on the pill and we’re in a hurry…” His voice trails off. He feels slightly sick.

Sam turns around, pale with shock and anger. “I can’t believe… Dean, you’re not stupid. I know you’re not stupid. All it takes is one damn time. God, you… You moron!”

“Sam…”

“No. You… _You_ shut up. We have to…” Sam paces the small space in agitation, wringing his hands, then he suddenly stops and turns to glare at Dean. “We’re going to the clinic to have you tested. Right now. For everything.”

“Sam, come on. We don’t have time. We have to go to-“

“No. First we do this. Do you know how many sexually transmitted diseases there are, Dean? Do you know how many of them can actually _kill you_ if they’re not caught early enough and treated? And I’m not just talking the big fucking A here, man.”

Dean sighs. “I’m not sick, Sam. They did lots of tests when I had that heart thing. They would have caught it.”

Sam blinks and his stance relaxes slightly for a second before his eyes narrow again. “Yeah? Well, I don’t care. I want you tested again. And anyway that was months ago. Not like you’ve been keeping your dick in your pants.”

Anger suddenly flares up in Dean’s chest and he glares at his brother. “Sam, back the fuck off! Just because you’re doing that whole hermit thing that doesn’t give you any right to-”

The punch catches him completely off guard. His head snaps back and he tastes blood in his mouth. His fist comes up instinctively, only to freeze an inch from Sam’s face, staring at the wet eyes glittering as they glare down at him in anger and fear.

“You could have died, Dean! You could have gotten sick and died and…”

Dean stares at Sam as the fury in his eyes suddenly fades and he sinks down on the opposite bed, face hidden in his big hands that are shaking along with his broad shoulders.

“Sammy…”

Sam shakes his head, refusing to look at him. “Please, Dean. Can you just do this for me?” His voice is small, almost broken.

“Yeah. Of course.” Dean licks his lips and nods. “You’re right, it’s probably a good idea. I’ll go right after lunch. Ok? Sammy? Ok?”

Sam’s head bobs but he doesn’t look up. “Ok. Alright.” He sniffs then stands abruptly up and walks to the bathroom, head bowed. He pauses in the doorway, back still turned. “I’m sorry. I just…”

“I know. It’s ok. Uh… Sam?”

He can see the broad muscles tense under his brother’s thin t-shirt. “Yeah?”

“There haven’t been any… guys. Not since we…” Dean swallows. “Not since I got you at Stanford.”

Sam stands still for a moment. Then he nods and walks into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Dean slowly lets out the breath he’s been holding and lets himself fall back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He thinks of Vicky with her big breasts and long hair. He thinks of all the girls, all the guys, he’s been with since. He thinks of Sam holding him just a little too long when Dean helped him up after that ghost threw him down some stairs last night. He thinks of himself not pulling away. He thinks of the other times things like that have happened lately and his heartbeat speeds up.

Yeah. Sam’s right. Getting tested is a good idea. You can never be too careful.  


 


	5. November 2006 – Salvation in Your Breath

Every morning when Dean wakes up there are about five seconds that he doesn’t remember. Where everything is still alright. He can hear Sam snoring softly in the other bed, there are rays of sun sneaking through splits in the curtains and his body is lax from sleep.

And then it hits him.

Dad is dead. He and Sam are orphans. And it’s all his fault. His fault. His fucking fault.

And to think that is the smallest of his problems.

Every single morning this is what happens. Stages of utter panic; tense muscles, frantic heartbeat, feeling like he’s suffocating. Smothered with despair so paralyzing that he can’t imagine ever being able to get out of bed. Wanting nothing more than to just close his eyes and sleep until he withers away.

Then Sam starts to wake up and Dean forces himself to calm down, to shut it all in and hide it all away. By the time Sam has the sleep rubbed out of his eyes Dean is lying with his own shut tight, breathing deeply and evenly, seeming dead to the world.

Every single morning. He just has to get through it and then he will be all right for the rest of the day. He will be all right. He _will_ be all right. He will…

His heart contracts in his chest, seeming to stop for a moment before speeding up until every muscle in his body goes rigid and he feels like he can’t breathe. God, it hurts. It hurts so bad he would cry if he could but he can’t. He can’t. He can’t give in and he can’t break down and he can’t…

He can’t do this! He can’t do this! He can’t do this!

_Dad, please! Help me!_

Sam rolls over on the other bed, one hand coming up to rub over his sleepy face and Dean freezes then slams his eyes shut. He listens to Sam grunt and yawn, then there’s silence for a second before Sam sits up, long legs swinging over the edge of the bed.

Dean doesn’t move, eyes still closed, the effort of keeping his breathing even making him dizzy.

After a while Sam stands up and stretches, then shuffles into the bathroom, half shutting the door behind him. Dean lies still, heart in his throat, listening to his brother yawning and clearing his throat, then slamming the toilet open, humming softly as he pees. Calm. Content.

Dean doesn’t doubt for a moment that Sam is grieving just as much as he is but it’s different for him. Maybe because he and their dad hadn’t been as close these last years. Maybe because Sam’s not burdened with any secrets whispered in his ear. Maybe because he’s not the one who practically killed the man.

Maybe because he’s not the one betraying every ounce of trust their father ever lay on him.

_I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, dad. I never meant for it to happen. Not with him. Not him. I swear. Please, God, just make it stop._

He lies still as Sam showers and gets dressed, feigning sleep until the door closes behind his brother, off to fetch the obligatory coffee he believes is the only thing that’s able to wake Dean up in the morning.

Only when the sound of Sam’s footsteps fade away can Dean let out the breath he’s been holding. It’s loud and sounds more like a sob than a sigh and he rolls over on his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. Stop it. Get a grip. Sam will be back soon and he shouldn’t have to see him like this. He’s got to be strong. Got to keep his cool.

_Breathe, breathe. Come on, you pathetic shit. What the fuck is wrong with you?_

Sweat runs down his back, pooling at the base of his spine. He shivers and it turns into a vicious tremble that he can’t stop, no matter how hard he tries. His breath quickens, shallow gasps that make his lungs ache and his heart slam against his ribs.

_Calm down. Calm down. Fucking breathe!_

Everything seems to go dark, time and space sliding away, and the pain squeezes his chest like an ice-cold fist. Fuck. It’s never been this bad before. What the fuck is going on?

Shit. Shitshitshit. It’s his heart, it has to be. He’s having another heart attack. Fucking quack healer. Fucking lying Reaper. He’s gonna die for real this time and Sam will walk in here and find him and he’ll be dead, really dead and Sam’ll be all alone and he doesn’t know, he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know because Dean hasn’t found the courage to tell him. About the secret, about…

Couldn’t tell him… tell him that… tell him…

_Oh God, Sammy. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._

“Dean? Dean! What’s wrong? Dean!”

He’s being turned over and his hands that were clutching the sheets skitter to his chest, scratching, pressing. Sam is looming over him like a dark shadow against the light and suddenly Dean wants nothing more than to see his face, see his eyes, but it’s all a blur and he can’t… he can’t… _Sam!_

“Dean, what? What?” Sam’s hands flutter over Dean’s chest before pulling at his cramped fingers. “Your heart? You think it’s your heart? No. No, it can’t be.”

_Think I’m imagining this? Think I’m fucking playing here?_

Dean’s hands are being pried away from his chest and down to his sides. Then Sam’s soft hair is brushing his chin and Sam’s chilled ear burns Dean’s skin as it presses down above his heart. Dean fights to get his hands free, needing to touch Sam, to wrap his arms around his little brother and hold him there, feeling him as he himself slips away.

“Dean, you’ve got to breathe. I don’t think it’s your heart. It’s beating fast but it’s a strong beat. You’re not having a heart attack. You hear me, Dean? You’re panicking, you need to calm down.”

_Calm down? Calm down!?! You try and calm down when you’re fucking dying, Sam!_

His inhales are down to almost non-existent, just hiccupping in tiny particles of air that slip out again before being of any use. He can hear Sam talking to him, sounding far away even if he can feel those big hands running up his chest and then they’re enveloping his face, Sam’s warm breath brushing his lips.

“In-out. Come on, Dean. Breathe. In-out. In-out.”

_I can’t! I can’t!_

Suddenly Sam’s lips are there, pressing down on his, blowing air slowly into his mouth before pulling away, allowing him to exhale. His lips tingle and the shock stops his breathing altogether for a moment and he goes completely still, blinking up at his brother. Then he’s gasping, swallowing air that tastes of vanilla latte and winter. Sam nods, relief evident in his eyes.

“Come on, Dean. Breathe with me.”

This time when Sam’s lips touch Dean’s he sucks the air right out of Sam’s mouth. It’s warm and sweet and he doesn’t want to let it go, wants to keep it in his chest, close to his own cold heart. But Sam is looking at him with those big eyes, wide and glittering, mouth twisted in fear, holding his breath like he’s waiting for Dean to return it. It jumps out of him in a cough and Sam’s mouth is instantly there, renewing his oxygen. This time it goes down more easily and when Dean exhales he can feel the burn slowly leaving his lungs. One more time and then Sam pulls back, nodding at Dean in encouragement.

“Come on, just like that. You’re doing great.”

He should be happy but he doesn’t want to be doing great. He wants to be breathing Sam’s air, not this stale air that smells of mildew and panic. Wants to taste Sam’s coffee on his breath and share the warmth from his lips. Wants Sam’s fingers pressing against his jugular until their heartbeats match. Wants to feel him alive and warm and here.

“Good. Good. Do you feel dizzy? Need to throw up? Need anything?”

Yes. No. No.

He nods and shakes his head, hoping he’s getting the answers right. Sam is watching him with a look that shows he’s about half a breath away from crying so Dean uncurls his fist from Sam’s jacket and reaches up to cup Sam’s face.

“I’m… ok. Sammy.”

Sam’s breath hitches and he looks briefly away before fixing his gaze once again on Dean, nodding as if now when the danger is over he can’t retrieve his voice. They keep still, Sam’s hands still cradling Dean’s face, Dean’s palm resting on Sam’s cheek. Dean’s thumb instinctively moves across those high cheekbones, caressing the smooth skin like he did when Sammy was a little kid, fighting so hard to be strong, to not cry no matter how scared he was. Dean’s own fear is gone, his whole attention fixated on Sam and how to repair the damage he’s done to his brother’s faith.

He feels like they’d been struggling forever but the chill December cold still clinging to Sam’s skin tells Dean it’s only been minutes. Sam swallows, his lower lip trembling, and then he closes his eyes, turns his head and presses his lips into Dean’s palm.

Dean sucks in his breath, staring up at Sam in shock. Sam doesn’t move except to lean further into Dean’s touch, his breath slipping out of his nostrils to slide warm between Dean’s fingers.

“Sammy…”

He meant it as a question but it comes out as a moan and Sam’s fingers curl, brushing Dean’s ears. He shivers, not daring to move. This isn’t what it seems, what he wants it to be. It’s just Sam, scared and vulnerable, needing to assure himself that he’s not losing yet another person from his life. Dean is the last one, the only one.

Dean is his big brother. His brother. Oh God.

He closes his eyes for a moment, saving the look on Sam’s face and the feel of the warm hands on his face in his memory. It’s all he’s gonna get, but it’s enough. It will be enough.

When he opens his eyes again it’s just in time to see Sam turn back to face him, wet eyelashes blinking a few times before he’s cleared his eyes enough to focus on Dean again. He licks his lips, pink tongue slipping over dry skin.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice holds fear and uncertainty and something Dean can’t quite put his finger on.

“Yeah, Sammy.”

He gives Sam a shaky smile and is just about to tell him it was nothing. That everything’s fine and it was just a bad dream that took him by surprise. The lies are ready on his tongue but when he opens his mouth Sam’s lips silence him.

He freezes for a second but what his mind won’t grasp his body is quick to catch up on and before he knows what’s happening he’s parted his lips and Sam’s tongue slips inside. With Sam’s big hands still holding his head and Sam’s nose breathing against his, his hip pressed against Dean’s side… Dean feels wrapped up in Sam and it’s the safest he’s felt in a long time.

He should pull back, he should push Sam away, but this is everything he’s dreamed of and feared and he will gladly face the devil again and for a thousand years for just one moment of this.

Sam’s left hand slides into Dean’s hair, his right elbow pressing into the mattress on Dean’s other side as he moves his long body over until he’s lying half beside Dean, half on top of him. His weight feels solid and safe, holding Dean in place when he knows he should be jumping up and running away.

Because this is everything Dean’s devoted his life to keeping his brother safe from. Every evil thought, every sin, every demon a human heart can hold. Every promise he ever made to his father, every prayer he ever whispered in his mother’s memory, all of them broken and defiled. And still he can’t stop.

His hands run up Sam’s back, slipping under his t-shirt and shirt and hoodie and jacket, worshipping the warmth of Sam’s skin. It’s not desire, not lust. It was never really about that anyway. It’s about Sam and everything he is, everything Dean’s always dreamed he’d be.

When Sam finally pulls back Dean feels a moment of panic but Sam just looks at him, blinking in what seems to be surprise and daze. Then he ducks his head, a deep red blush painting his cheeks before looking up again, smiling shyly.

“Was it this?”

Dean swallows. “What?”

“That made you panic. Was it this?”

Dean hesitates, their dad’s words echoing in his head, but then he nods. Despite everything else, this has always been it. “Yeah. Yeah, Sammy.”

Sam’s smile is bright enough to chase all the other fears away anyway.

He slips one hand from Sam’s back and reaches up again, this time brushing his thumb over Sam’s kiss-swollen lips. “How did you…?”

“I didn’t. Just thought I’d waited long enough.” Sam grins. “For being such a ladies man you sure take your time seducing a guy, Dean.”

“That’s not…!” He doesn’t know whether to laugh or scowl. “This is not the same! Sam…”

“I know.” Sam’s face turns serious. “But I’m all right, Dean. This? Is not your fault. It’s not your burden to bear. Ok?”

“Sam. We shouldn’t… we can’t… Oh God.” He feels his breath quickening again but then Sam’s tongue is in his mouth and it just… stops.

He’s terrified and flailing and the whole world seems to be crumbling under his feet but it’s all getting pushed away by the warmth of Sam and the taste of Sam and the smell of Sam and really that is all he needs right now.  



	6. December 2006 – Casting the First Stone

Dean yawns and tries to straighten his legs as much as he can in the narrow pew. The heavy scent of incense and candles, along with the echoed silence that all cathedrals seem to hold, is lulling him to sleep and his eyelids keep slipping down, only to snap open every time his head starts falling forward and he jerks upright.

With a sigh he glances over at the small figure kneeling in the third row. The woman has been at it for half an hour now. No way such an old crone can have so many sins to pray absolution for. He sighs. Maybe she has a very sinful family. Something he can very well relate to.

His ass is getting numb from sitting on the wooden bench and for the hundredth time he checks his watch. Almost ten. Sam will be getting worried. He scratches his knee absentmindedly and glances over at the single worshipper again. If she doesn’t move within the next five minutes he’ll march up to the baptism font and fill the bottles in his bag, witnesses be damned. He frowns. Actually he’s not sure what the legal stands are regarding theft of holy water. He’ll have to get Sam to look it up.

Four more minutes. He lets his eyes drift shut and for a moment he’s back in Pastor Jim’s church, legs swinging, whispering obscenities to a blushing young Sam. The memory makes him smile. Sam’s never been able to let completely go of his fear for God. Dean has no idea where he got that from, neither Dean nor their dad ever had much respect for the guy.

Yeah ok, so holy water and crosses have their uses but so do Pagan symbols and Egyptian hieroglyphs so really, where is the proof? He has his own theory about the origin of religions being like the Tower of Babel. That once there had been one god - logic said female - and then through time everything got scrambled and split up into different stories and by the time someone finally invented writing and put them all down, no one remembered where they originated from. He has a vision of a woman overlooking the world, (in his mind she looks disturbingly much like his mother), weeping for what has become of her creation.

Dean shakes the image out of his head. If Sam knew Dean sometimes has thoughts like this he’ll never hear the end of it.

Especially now.

Sam’s constantly worrying about him. It’s like an obsession with him, worrying about his brother. It’s driving Dean completely insane.

Yes, their dad is dead. Yes, Dean isn’t really dealing but dammit, how the hell do you deal with a thing like that? With someone selling their soul to save your life? As far as he’s concerned there is no way of dealing and there really shouldn’t be. He’s guilty and he should suffer. End of story.

He’s just glad Sam doesn’t know everything. And if it’s up to Dean Sam never will. Dean will work it out somehow, on his own. It’s enough that he’s got Sam entangled in all this other… stuff.

“Have you found what you seek, son? Or would you like to sleep a little longer?”

Dean jerks awake and turns around, hand slipping inside his jacket, ready to draw out the gun, but all he sees is a middle-aged priest sitting in the pew behind him, watching him with an amused expression.

“I wasn’t sleeping. Just… praying.” He tries for his most honest smile even if Sam insists it makes him look like a serial killer.

“Ah. Praying.” The priest smiles and Dean can feel himself blushing. Damn. Was he snoring? “Well, I hate to disturb you but I’m afraid I must lock up.”

Dean frowns. “I thought the church was open until midnight.”

“It is. Which is why I let you… prey for as long as I could. It’s half past now.”

Dean stares at him. “It’s…? Oh shit, Sam’s gonna kill me.”

The priest raises his eyebrows and Dean realizes with horror that his blush is heating up even further. His ears feel like they’re burning. _Dude, you are not thirteen. And this is not Pastor Jim catching you with your hand down Mandy Sloan’s pants._

“Erm… I mean… I’m sorry. It’s just… my brother is probably looking for me.” Dean offers an apologetic smile. “He worries. All the damn time,” he mutters more to himself then blushes again. Oh come on! “Sorry.”

The priest smiles in understanding. “He must love you very much.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, well… He probably shouldn’t.” It slips out before he’s even thought it.

“No? Why?”

Dean clenches his jaw and straightens up. “Pardon me, father, but it’s really none of your business.”

“Everything is God’s business,” the priest answers with a reassuring smile.

“Well, if you ask me, God’s not much of a business man. Trump would have fired his a…fired him a long time ago.”

“Trump?”

“Donald. _The Apprentice_?” At the priest’s clueless look Dean sighs. “Nevermind. I better get going.” He stands up, then hesitates. “Look, this may sound weird but I need some holy water. Mind if I fill up from the font?”

The puzzled look on the priest’s face deepens but he shakes his head. “Help yourself.”

Dean nods and walks up the aisle, stopping in front of the marble and silver font. There isn’t much water left, barely enough for half a soda bottle. Damn. The priest joins him, looking down at the small puddle then up at Dean’s frowning face.

“I can bless some more if you like.”

Dean looks at him in surprise. “You don’t mind? You have no idea what I’m gonna use it for.”

“Holy water can only be used for good, son. But I guess you know that. You have demons you need to vanquish?”

Dean’s taken aback and he stares at the priest in shock. “Erm… yeah. Something like that.”

“Well, as much as I trust in the healing powers of belief myself, you don’t seem to be much of a believer. This is for your brother?”

Dean hesitates. “Sort of. And me. Both of us. It’s complicated.”

“Ah. Well, how much do you need?”

Dean opens his bag and takes out three empty soda bottles. “Is this ok?”

“Perfectly fine.” The priest takes the bottles from his hands and disappears with them into the back.

Dean looks around. Jesus is staring down at him from the cross above the altar, face twisted in torment, and Dean gives him a small nod. “Yeah, man. I hear you.”

He turns when he hears the priest coming up behind him, smiling thankfully as he accepts the bottles back. They weigh down the bag, making his shoulder throb in pain. He wonders if he can find some 24h pharmacy open. They’re out of Tylenol, among other things. Sam eats them like candy. The headaches seem to be worse now the visions are back.

The priest walks him down the aisle, patting Dean’s back in quiet reassurance as he again awkwardly offers his thanks. As he reaches for the heavy door, Dean suddenly hesitates and looks back up at the crucifixion above the altar before turning his gaze on the priest.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Jesus allegedly gave his life for humanity. For our sins.”

The priest gives him a patient smile. “Most certainly, yes.”

“Right. So, what is the church’s stand on sacrifice? Sacrificing one life for another?”

The priest frowns. “Are you thinking of… yourself?”

“No. Or yes. It’s…”

“Complicated.” The kind eyes crinkle with amusement.

“Yeah. Or no. Do you believe in evil, father?”

The man frowns. “As a concept or as an entity?”

“As something living and breathing amongst us that has to be fought with every means necessary.”

The priest seems to think for a moment. “Well, I suppose. In a way. Not physical devils and demons but most certainly personal ones.”

Dean sighs, then tries again. “What if someone gave in to evil for a good cause?”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“If someone sold their soul to save another. Shouldn’t the act in itself undo the pact? A perfectly selfless sacrifice… you’d think it would earn his soul a sure place in heaven. No questions asked. If there is a God, you’d think he’d like a guy like that on his side, not… the other.”

The priest blinks in confusion. “When you say ‘sold his soul’…?”

Dean purses his lips and shakes his head. “Nevermind.” He gives the priest a tired smile. “Thanks anyway.”

He reaches for the door but the priest lays a hand on his arm, stopping him. “You believe in evil, son?”

“Yes.” He laughs dryly. “Hard not to when you fight it every day.”

The priest nods. “Do you believe yourself to be evil?”

“Yes.” The word is out before he’s even thought of an answer and he blinks. “I mean, no. Not like that. But I’m not good either.”

“You want to confess your sins? Do you think that would make you feel better?”

Dean snorts. “I doubt it. My sins would give you nightmares, padre, and you’ve been much too nice to deserve that.”

“Nothing you tell me could ever shock me, son.”

“No?”

Dean laughs coldly, staring up at a painting of St. John the Baptist for a moment before suddenly turning to the priest, staring him right in the eye.

“I’m a killer. That’s my job. Demons, ghosts, creatures out of your worst nightmares… you name it and I kill those sonsofbitches without a second thought. Nothing to it.”

He waves his hand dismissively, ignoring the priest’s shocked stare. “I do it because someone has to but most importantly because I want to. It’s what I was born to do.”

“Son…”

“Lately though… there have been… humans. Sam says I didn’t have much choice, it was kill or be killed, and he’s probably right. I don’t care too much about those anyway. But… I’ve come back from the brink of death twice now and each time it cost a human life. And those I do care about.”

He nods as the priest involuntarily takes a step back. “The first one was a stranger but the second… the second was my father. He made a deal and now he’s dead and I’m alive.” He can feel tears stinging his eyes and he blinks them angrily away. “I’m alive and I don’t know why. What the hell I did to deserve to be here. Because I’ve sinned. I’ve sinned more than you can ever imagine and killing is the least of them.”

Nausea is rising in his throat but he can’t stop. It’s like a dam braking and he can’t close his mouth, can’t reign in his anger and frustration and the guilt so heavy he’s staggering underneath its weight.

“My brother… He escaped from this hell we call our life and I… _I_ pulled him back in because I couldn’t bear to be alone. Got his girlfriend killed as a result. There’s another human life on my shoulders. So now it’s just him and me and we have no one else. I have no one else. I’m on my way to damnation and I’m dragging him with me.” His voice staggers and he pulls in a deep breath, trying to steady it. “Because I love him so damn much. I love him too much to let him go. And I don’t care if it destroys the both of us.”

A hand is laid on his arm and he looks up into confused but still kind eye. “Son, I don’t really understand what this is all about but you can never love a person too much. Love is the ultimate force. It’s never wrong.”

“It is if you love them the wrong way.”

The priest stares at him. “I don’t understand. What is…?” He pauses and then he visibly pales, pulling his hand away. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” Dean smiles bitterly. “Still believe you can save my soul, father?”

The man seems to hesitate but then he takes a deep breath and holds Dean’s eyes. “Yes. Does he know?”

Dean snorts, the bitter taste in his mouth burning his throat. “I think my cock up his ass might have given him a hint, yeah.”

The priest swallows. “Did you force him?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it does. Did you?”

“No.” Despite everything he can’t help smiling. “To tell the truth… he started it.”

“Did _he_ force _you_?”

“Sammy? Are you kidding me? I thought he’d pass out he was so scared.” At the disapproving look in the priest’s eyes Dean realizes he’s grinning and the chuckle dies on his lips. “We’re both adults, father. No one’s being taken advantage of here.”

“Incest… it’s one of the biggest sins. A deed so wrong, so abnormal…” The priest seems lost for words. “And still you claim to love him.”

Dean clenches his jaw, his eyes turning cold. “You know, I think we’re done here.” He turns to leave but the priest’s shaky voice stops him.

“Why did you come here? You thought I’d absolute you? That I would tell you God looks favorably upon your sinful bonding?” The priest shakes his head. “Nothing can make what you do right. You must stop now and repent. You must give up this… abomination. If not for your sake then for your brother’s. If you really do love him.”

Dean stands still for a moment but then he opens the door, not bothering to look back. “I came for the holy water, father. That’s all. That’s all I’ll ever want from your God.”

He slams the heavy door shut behind him, cutting off whatever retort the priest might have, and stands still on the church steps, swallowing the bile in his throat. The ground is covered in a thin layer of snow, an odd snowflake floating down from the black sky. Dean blinks, the weight on his chest suddenly lifting. He should feel horrified, even sick, but instead all he feels is relief.

He’s not going to stop. Not going to give up his brother or this thing they have, whatever it is. He can’t, and beside, Sam would never let him. So he’s damned.

A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. Oh well, he can live with that.

He trots down the steps and heads for the car. His hands are already cold, his nose even colder. Well, Sammy’s the one who always wants to cuddle. Lets see how happy he’ll be when Dean crawls into bed.

Dean laughs quietly to himself as he swings away from the sidewalk and drives down the empty street, _Highway To Hell_ blasting from the speakers. If that's where he's destined to go, he's gonna make sure he enjoys every minute of the ride.

fin

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [From The Other Side or The "Five Times Dean Was Saved" Remix](https://archiveofourown.org/works/459616) by [felisblanco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/felisblanco/pseuds/felisblanco)




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